


Evidence ... that Transcends Hunger

by etorphine



Series: Crush. [2]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Crush, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Sobriety, they survive au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28991853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etorphine/pseuds/etorphine
Summary: "A happy ending?Sure enough —Hello darling, welcome home."Six years after the end of the Kira case, and five and some years after they'd called it quits. All it takes is a few drinks, and they’re back to where they started.
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Series: Crush. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126736
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	Evidence ... that Transcends Hunger

# SEBASTIAN

Imagine a car.

A black, 2014 Jaguar XF, idling at the front door of a mansion lit below by garden-lights. It looks like a set-piece on a Broadway play. It’s a beautiful mansion; the type with trimmed rose-bushes, a flat-top roof, and layers like a three-tier cake. 

The windows of the mansion are glowing golden. Evidence of a party, a get-together, a group of bright-faced professionals over glasses of wine.

There are cars parked around the spacious driveway. There are too many cars to count, but the black, 2014 Jaguar XF is the one right in front of the front door. It’s the centerpiece. It’s important.

Inside, there sits a man with a brown suit and tortoise-shell glasses, waiting patiently for somebody.

Now, imagine a man.

A man with blonde hair, standing at the entranceway of the mansion. He has his arms crossed. He’s wearing a thin, structured black jacket, and black waxed denim jeans. He looks beautiful, terrifying, and angry as the Jaguar pulls up in front of him.

He stomps, his heeled shoes _clop clop clopp_ ing over the natural stone driveway. His gloved hand grips the handle, forcing it open. It doesn’t budge, because the man in the car has locked the door. Force of habit. 

So the man in the car unlocks it with a touch of his rough hand. The blond gets angrier, embarrassed. He barrels into the car with as much ferocity as a wildcat. The Jaguar’s car alarm sounds quaintly.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The blond slams the door, encasing them in the type of silence that can only be afforded with a seven-figure salary.

They do not talk. Their breaths converse, but don’t have much to say. Their postures are rod-straight against the heated leather seats. 

The interior lights dim, leaving them to stare at the beautiful mansion beside them. It should prompt a conversation, but it doesn’t.

Another minute. More silence, before the driver lets out a sharp, impatient sigh. 

The blond pays it no mind. His head is facing the window. He wants us all to know that he’s great at giving the silent treatment.

The driver knows, too. So he gives up first. He grabs the gearshift, and shoves it backwards to Drive. He eases the Jaguar out of the driveway, passing through thick foliage, driving up to a gate with an intercom.

They’re leaving. The gate lets them through. They pull out into the main road, where it’s mostly forest and trees. No streetlights. They’re on Staten Island. They’re thirty minutes away from Manhattan. That’s the type of driveway that people with seven-figure salaries can afford.

Now imagine this:

The man driving is named William.

The blond has many names. Call him Sebastian.

* * *

William drives them back to New York Island. Street lights glow above them, shining over the hood of the Jaguar. The glow of neon tail-lights pierce through the windshield, and all around them is construction and Chinese street-signs.

At a red light, William breaks the silence. “What happened tonight?”

Sebastian shifts, shrugging coldly. “You should know.”

William shakes his head. “I don’t. So tell me.”

The light turns green, and the cars in front of them move, their red tail-lights fading into oblivion. The hum of the engine is quiet. William is waiting for a response.

Sebastian readjusts his jacket, pulling it over his thighs, and straightens in the passenger seat, crossing his arms. “You embarrassed me tonight,” he says.

“I embarrassed you,” William repeats in incredulity, following the wide arc of a roundabout. “How?”

“You know how.”

“Enlighten me.”

The Jaguar leaves the roundabout. William signals, turning into Nolita, the brass band around his finger glimmering under a passing streetlight. 

They’re almost back to Sebastian’s place, and Sebastian knows that he can let it go. He doesn’t. 

“When you introduced me to Joseph tonight,” he says.

William lets out a scoff. “You’re not still going on about that, are you?”

“It was embarrassing.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “You said enough.”

“It was a pause,” William counters, shaking his head back. “I paused.”

“That was enough,” Sebastian repeats, resolutely.

William doesn’t have a comeback. Sebastian lets the silence drench the two of them like gasoline. William’s car slides into a road that’s half-under construction, the dirt plot fenced-off by chain links. 

He pulls right up to a yellow cab that doesn’t know how to drive, slamming the brakes, blaring the horn.

_Hooooooooonk._

“Shit,” William mumbles, shifting his hand off the horn. The taxi driver in front of him flashes the bird, and keeps driving. “Sorry.” He sighs. “Sebastian, look.”

Sebastian doesn’t look. 

“You know I respect your reluctance to put labels on things,” William continues. 

Sebastian shifts. “Do you?”

“I do,” William replies, calmly. “I haven’t once pressured you to name anything you don’t want to name. That’s never been my intention.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Tonight says otherwise,” he says, clipped.

William sighs, unravelling. “How else was I supposed to introduce you? I mentioned you to Corinne before. When you came with me to Paris.”

Betrayal comes like an air dart, and trickles down Sebastian’s throat. He looks over, the first time all car ride, and sees William’s profile fixed in a scowl. 

“You told Corinne about me?”

William glances over, his scowl melting. He meets his eyes nervously before looking away. “Only because you came to accompany me during my Sabbatical,” he explains.

“You told her I was your partner.”

“Yes. Because she pressed it.”

Sebastian scoffs, rolling his eyes. “She pressed it.”

“She’s seen you around on campus. She was curious.” William takes a hand off the wheel, palming his forehead as he airs his grievances. “What was I supposed to do? Lie?”

“Isn’t that what you did today?” Sebastian shoots back.

William gives him another look. This one tells him that Sebastian has offended him. It doesn’t bother Sebastian at all.

“Let’s not do this,” William says after a beat, trying to smooth out the edges of his voice.

Sebastian looks away, cutting their eye contact in two slices. “We’re not doing anything.”

The car pulls into an alleyway in Nolita. Sebastian’s apartment. A brutalist building sitting in the middle of Chinatown like an art exhibit. It’s beautiful and daunting, unlike the mansion that they left earlier in the night.

William shifts his gear to Park. Sebastian stays in place. Nobody moves for another minute, as the time on the Jaguar’s console slides from 10:52 to 10:53.

Another taxi cab bumbles by, and William decides to speak.

“Please,” he says, softening his voice. “I just got back two nights ago. I don’t want to do this.”

“Okay,” Sebastian responds callously, grabbing onto the handle of the Jaguar. “I don’t want to do this, either.”

He opens the door, stepping out into the cool autumn night. William looks like he wants to stop him, but then pulls back, both hands on the wheel in front of him.

“Fine,” William says. “Goodnight, Sebastian.”

Sebastian jerks his head in a nod. “Goodnight.”

“I’ll call you,” William adds.

To no response. Sebastian slips out the car, and swings the door shut.

* * *

Sebastian lives in a six-million-dollar apartment. A state-of-the-art residence in the heart of lower Manhattan, one of seven patrons that inhabit this building. 

The elevator is designed to only stop at one floor at a time, so Sebastian has never met any of them. He does not want to. 

The elevator does not ding. It simply opens: Sebastian stands in front of a brutalist vestibule.

The walls are concrete, and they push water from the top through holes, cascading down like a waterfall. The opposite wall is all glass, so that Manhattan can watch as Sebastian walks past the potted plants, and enters his passcode at the keypad by his front door.

The keypad beeps. Sebastian slides his glove off, and presses his thumb to the fingerprint scanner.

There is another beep, and his front door slides open for him.

In the entryway, the sensor lights turn on automatically, welcoming him home with a warm, golden glow. Sebastian takes two steps and slides off his other leather glove, tossing them on the entryway table, one on top of the other.

The door behind him slides shut. Sebastian walks across the hallway, and stops in front of his security alarm.

Sebastian inputs his security code password — a code he changes every week — and leans in for a retina scan, the infra-red light flashing over his pupil. 

The security alarm light turns from red to green, flashing.

Sebastian turns away, blinking as he walks down the hallway and into his living room, encased with dark grey oak, his furniture all the same shade of greyscale. The sensor lights don’t extend to here: he hasn’t installed them yet.

Sebastian circles into his kitchenette in the dark, heading for his fridge. He rolls open the freezer, and the light from below is bright and calculating.

Sebastian leans down to pick a single-serve ice cream at random, out of the fifty little containers stacked up inside. The one he picks out is one of his favorites.

Haagen-Dazs, cherry chocolate chunk.

Sebastian nods to himself as he closes his fist around it, shifting over towards his ice cream-spoon drawer. He pulls it open, the silver teaspoons glinting against the rosewood liner like bullets.

But Sebastian doesn’t feel like a silver teaspoon tonight. Not with the cherry chocolate chunk. He digs around, and unearths his special gem: a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon, harvested from the sea, lovingly carved by hand.

It’s a gift from William from Paris.

Sebastian slips it into his mouth, tonguing it idly as he leaves the kitchen and walks towards the living room. He settles down on his dark grey, L-shaped couch, the back of it pressed against the windows of his apartment.

He has the shutter blinds rolled down tonight, enjoying his privacy. “Kim,” he calls out. “Turn on the living room TV.”

Across from his perch glows a faint orange light, attached to a small round device. It flashes once, and an automated woman’s voice responds, “Okay. Sebastian. Turning on the living room TV.”

Sebastian sets the ice cream on the matching footrest as the TV phases on, flooding the spacious living room with the light of the screen. He bends over to unzip his boot as the ongoing sound of the news soaks the apartment, filling out all the corners. 

This feels like home.

_—just seeing that brings home that this is not a movie scene. This is real life, where twenty-two people lost their lives—_

Sebastian kicks off his boots, setting his bare feet on the footrest ahead of him. He stretches his toes, flexes the soles, listening to the knuckles crack. His black pedicure has grown out; it’s time for another appointment.

On the TV in front of him is a scene of rubble, a newscaster with curly blonde hair standing in front of a broken-down car, clutching at her microphone emphatically.

White-on-red: DEADLY ITALY EARTHQUAKE.

Below it: 6.2 MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE KILLS AT LEAST 250 IN CENTRAL ITALY.

Sebastian picks up his ice cream, pops open the lid, and peels open the seal. He digs his mother-of-pearl spoon inside, just as the woman finishes her speech, the feed flipping to the news studio again. 

An anchor sits, well-coiffed in high definition, her glossed plum lips shining.

“For the upcoming presidential election,” she says, a news preview icon flashing up beside her as she reads the teleprompter, “Hillary Clinton has attacked Donald Trump, claiming that his campaign empowers the far-right, white nationalist, ‘alt right’ movement—”

“Kim,” Sebastian calls out again, watching the blink of the orange light under his TV set. “Change the living room TV to channel 639.”

“Okay, Sebastian,” the voice responds. “Changing living room TV to channel 639.”

The screen flips, landing on a close-up of a bag of icing, piped onto a cake made to look like a tree stump. Cake Boss. Buddy is making a wedding cake for professional tree-cutters.

_We decided that we’re gonna make grass on the board, rather than dirt. Sometimes, you gotta go for somethin’ that looks prettier._

Sebastian digs a hole in his ice cream, holding it in his mouth as he unearths his personal cell phone from his pants pocket. He hasn’t looked at it since he left the dinner party. His notifications stretch down the screen.

Sebastian tongues his spoon idly, rotating it against his lip as he scrolls. There are work calls, Facebook Messenger messages, Instagram DM requests, and — 

Sebastian swipes, isolating one that piques his attention. A text message from two hours ago.

From Matt. 

The screen flashes white as the app opens. Sebastian licks his spoon, shoving it into the surface of his ice cream distractedly as he reads the blue bubble on the left side of the screen.

> _We still up for tomorrow?_

Sebastian purses his lips, slipping his spoon into his mouth to hold onto as he types up his reply.

> _Of course we are. See you at 7._

_Whoosh._ He sends it, watching the message fly into their chat-box. The _Delivered_ waits a second before flipping to _Read_.

Sebastian smiles to himself, and clicks his phone screen off.

* * *

“You look… different.”

Mello raises an eyebrow, leaning against his elbows on the bar table as he responds, “Do I?”

Across from him, Matt nods, furrowing his eyebrows as his eyes dart around Mello’s face. Mello’s eyes, his hair, his nose, his lips, and then stop there for a second longer before trailing back up to his bangs.

Mello smacks his lipgloss together, trying to stop himself from smirking.

“Yeah,” Matt drawls, his eyes suspended over Mello’s bangs. “Did you do something with your hair?”

Mello shakes his head, taking a sip from his beer glass. “No.”

“Your…” Matt frowns. “Makeup?”

“Not really,” Mello responds, licking his lips.

“Huh.” Matt squints, cocking his head as he gives up. He takes his beer glass, tilting it to his mouth, but pauses before he drinks it to add: “Well, you look good.”

Mello lets himself smile now, as Matt takes a sip of his beer.

It’s been a few months. Not long enough to call a while. They’re sitting at a dive bar in lower Manhattan, tucked from a main road across from a pharmacy, overlooking the glossy sidewalks of a corner of a small street that nobody goes to.

It’s around 7, and there’s only one other table at the whole bar: two twenty-something year old girls, catching up a ways away from the window seats. 

It’s slow for a Saturday night.

Mello hasn’t changed much. Not really. He’s gotten some cosmetic modifications, but he doesn’t owe it to Matt to tell him. Matt has changed, though, in the small time that they haven’t seen each other, gobbling his beer like he’s parched.

Matt looks very, very good.

He’s wearing a leather jacket, fit to his body like a glove. It frames him, shining in the bar’s red fairy lights, making him look rough-around-the-edges with his tousled, shorter hair.

Underneath is a red shirt. It brings out the warmth in his eyes. It also fades into his skin, under the fairy lights, and Mello can imagine him shirtless underneath the leather.

“Thanks,” Mello says. “I like the jacket.”

Matt finishes drinking and smiles, a soft lift of his lips. “Yeah?” he asks, licking his lips. “It was a gift.”

Mello nods as he reaches over to hold the handle of their pitcher, poised to refill Matt’s glass. 

“Looks good on you,” Mello says lightly.

Matt puts the glass back down on the table, the clink muted by the coaster. Mello tops him up, flashing a small smile as he does it, watching the bubbles slide and cling to the side, soaping the plastic jug. 

The corner of Matt’s mouth quirks farther up. “Thanks.”

And they’re done with their mutual ego-strokes. It feels good because Matt feels open today. More than he’s been in years.

“So,” Mello starts, setting the pitcher down. “How’ve you been?”

Matt shrugs, crossing his arms over the bar table. “Same old,” he answers.

“How’s the pop-up looking?”

“Good for the time being,” Matt responds, glancing out the window beside him as somebody walks by. “But, you know. Had to put that on hold for a while, because…”

He trails off, ducking his head with a shrug. Mello nods understandingly.

“Right,” he says. “Has Near sent you everything already?”

“Yeah.” Matt snorts quietly to himself. “Haven’t looked at it though.”

“You have time.” Mello pauses. “You say you’re coming in on Monday?”

“Yeah, apparently.”

“You looking forward to that?”

Matt raises an eyebrow, looking back to Mello with a quick roll of his eyes. “What, having to take Near’s shit again, or working OT for the next foreseeable future?”

“The former,” Mello answers.

Matt exhales a dry laugh. “Fuck no. But oh, hey.” Matt raps his knuckles on the table, remembering something. “How’ve you guys been recently? Last time, you had that blowout over the…”

He trails off, his hand clawing for the word he’s forgotten. Mello supplies, “The Sheffield Murders.”

“Yeah!” Matt nods, shoving his hand back into the nook of his leather elbow. “How are you guys now?”

“We’re fine,” Mello answers quickly, changing the subject. “But it will be fun working together again, Matt. I’m looking forward to it.”

Matt huffs a laugh, looking away, a tinge bashful. “Sure y’are,” he mumbles, the words squirming in his mouth.

“Of course I am.”

Matt shakes his head, waving him off. “How’s William?”

Another air dart launches itself into Mello’s trachea. He inhales privately, shifting on his barstool, readjusting the cling of his snakeskin leather pants. 

“He’s fine,” Mello answers, clipped.

Matt presses. “He just got back, right?”

“Yeah.”

Matt stops pressing as he looks at Mello for a beat, smelling something brewing in the air. He’s good at keeping his distance: he backs off, shrugging to himself. 

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees faintly. “Well, that’s nice.”

Mello hums. “What about, uh…”

“Clem?”

“Yeah.” The dumpy-looking girl, with the glasses. “How’s she?”

Matt’s hand slips from his arm, taking a small sip of his beer. “Moved out a few weeks ago,” he says casually, swallowing as he wipes a droplet of condensation of the glass.

Mello frowns. “What?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, shrugging, rubbing his fingers together as he looks back up again. “It didn’t work out.”

Mello looks at him, gauging his reaction, trying to find the crack in his nonchalance. He’s been around long enough to recognize the self-deprecating snort, the evasive look, the hollow dip in his tone. When Mello sees them, they broadcast themselves like a distress call.

But this time, there is none. 

There’s just this leather jacket, and Matt, sitting across from him with no emotional wounds for Mello to stitch up.

Mello isn’t sure exactly what this means.

“After we got back from Ho Chi Minh City, things just kinda fizzled out,” Matt offers in the silence, leaning against his hand, smoothing down the messy hairs at the back of his neck as he glances over to the TV on top of the bar. “It was mutual, y’know.”

Mello nods, tonguing his bottom lip. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says carefully.

Matt shrugs him off, looking away from the TV, his hand shifting back on the table. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he answers, chancing a dry little smile, half-hearted, but not hurt. “It’s a process.”

Mello hums in agreement, trailing his fingers over his lip idly. This Matt — there’s something about him. He can’t put his finger on it.

Before he can try, the table vibrates, Matt’s phone screen flashing with light in the dimly lit bar. _Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz._

Mello glances down as Matt’s hand fits over his heavy phone case. It’s a call. From upside down, he can read the caller ID: Leslie.

“Fuck,” Matt mumbles, sliding the phone off the table. “I gotta take this. Excuse me.”

Mello nods briefly, watching as Matt swipes his finger over the answer button, melting off the tall bar stool. He gives him a quick, apologetic smile as he passes, holding his phone to his ear. 

“Hello? Yeah. I know, I know, I know, I said we’d talk, but I’m busy right—”

Mello’s head follows as Matt turns, slamming his shoulder against the front door to push it open. His voice fades as the doors shut behind him, and Mello sees him through the window, reappearing on the sidewalk outside.

It’s a cool summer night. The wind is blowing, and Matt shoves his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans, shifting away from the door. Mello can’t hear him through the tempered window, but he’s trying to read his lips.

_Leslie. No. Fuck._

There aren’t a lot of people on the sidewalk. Matt’s monopolized this cut of the road. He starts pacing around the strip, the crown of his red hair shining orange from underneath the sodium lights. He throws his hands up, his shoulders sagging as he taps his foot.

Suddenly, Mello hears his voice leak through the glass as he turns around, snapping, “No!” 

Mello puts down the beer, shifting away from the window for a better view. 

What a rare sight to see. He tilts his head against his fist, watching.

Matt is rolling his eyes, his mouth hanging in anger as the other line responds. He ambles back over to Mello’s side unconsciously, pressing his back against the glass with a _thump_. 

The back of his leather jacket turns black, sticking to glass. There’s a decal on the window, the bar’s name written backwards — and Matt’s head is knocking against it as he talks on the phone, moving back and forth.

Matt’s hand shifts. Mello’s eyes follow.

Matt’s still listening, but his hand is busy digging into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. They’re tight on him — wrapping around his small ass, hugging his thighs, filled out a bit since when they were younger. 

Matt’s fingers tuck into his pocket, slipping inside. 

Mello can’t help but smirk to himself, biting his lip. It’s a familiar gesture — the joint of his first knuckle, twisting inside something tight, feeling around for something. 

A jolt slithers up Mello’s hips at the memory. He crosses his legs.

On the other end of the window, unaware, Matt pinches a black, slim stick out of his ass-pocket. He holds it tight in his fist, his hand drifting to meet his mouth.

Matt purses his lips around it, taking a long inhale.

His shoulders rise with the jacket. He tilts his head back, knocking into the glass audibly, and lets out a long, big, billowing stream of vape smoke.

Matt’s ear, his sensitive curve of an ear, is pressed close enough that Mello can lean over and lick it through the glass. But as he watches the smoke from his vape float up into the streetlight, fading into the night, he wants more than just that.

“—No!” comes another one of Matt’s muffled shouts, bringing Mello’s eyes back onto him. “You know she has anxiety and depression!”

Mello quirks a brow.

“What?” Matt pauses, shaking his head. “No, that’s not how—” Another pause. “Do you even—” Matt shakes his head, gesturing with the vape pen still in his hand. “No. No. No.”

Mello hears someone enter the bar, the doors opening. It’s a middle-aged couple: a man and a woman, quietly laughing.

“Are you fucking serious?” comes Matt’s voice.

He’s loud. The middle aged couple glance back, scandalized. 

Matt’s voice gets even louder, until the bartenders look towards the window curiously, checking out the show. The girls catching up on the floor are watching him with a strike between amusement and disgust.

“What the fuck?” one of them laughs, turning back around.

“No,” says Matt’s voice, rough. “Listen. No. You listen.” 

Matt is leaning forward now, his phone held to his ear by one crooked finger. The leather curves over his back smoothly, and he’s shaking his head, smoking from his vape desperately.

“Yeah, that’s not going to fucking help her,” he groans, palming his hair, shoving it out of his eyes. “You _know_ Lucy has to stay with me. I’m the only fucking father figure she’s ever had in her life.”

Matt mumbles something to himself, inaudible through glass. The conversation falls quiet for a few brief seconds as Matt slouches, before another outburst. 

“What, like bringing her to a fucking shooting range so she has another mental break?”

Matt lifts himself off from the window, standing up as he laughs harshly. Mello can see the front of his body now. The tight jeans, the leather jacket. The red shirt. The fold of his pants, and the bulge in his pocket, attached to his belt by a silver, glinting wallet chain.

Matt is silent, pulling another hit from his vape impatiently. He’s listening to the other end again, rolling his eyes.

Then he looks over, and notices Mello watching him for the first time.

It’s a thrilling moment. Like getting caught by your prey. But Mello plays it cool, tilting his head in question. _What’s going on?_

Matt shakes his head back, making a face, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly as he pulls his phone away from his ear.

 _This is insane_ , Matt mouths, pointing to his phone. Mello exhales a chuckle. It makes Matt smile, too; a catlike smirk.

In an instant, his face turns sour as he hears something he doesn’t like on the phone. He only mumbles it, but Mello can read his lips: “oh, that’s fucking rich.”

Matt turns around, pacing back to the front door, away from Mello’s eyeshot. But the way Matt’s talking to him this time around — it’s different.

It means something.

Mello tears his eyes from the window just as a bartender saunters by, holding empty martini glasses in her hands. She’s busty, her tits spilling out from the swoop-neck, tight black t-shirt.

Mello flags her down. She stops and turns to look at him, the powdery cloud of perfume stopping with her. “You need something?” 

“Yeah,” Mello says. “Get me two shots of tequila silver.” He pauses. “And one lime.”

The bartender nods.

“Also,” Mello adds, pointing to a booth at the back, by the bathroom hallway. “We’ll be moving over there.”

“Gotcha,” the bartender says as she slithers away back to the bar. Mello looks over her head to the TV, playing an ad for the new Jeep Grand Cherokee. The girl sets the martini glasses down at the cleaning station and swipes her finger over the POS system, the bright screen making her face shine white.

The front door swings open.

It’s Matt, his phone tucked away, no longer glued to his face. He’s flushed, almost breathless, shaking his head to himself. His face is fixed in irritation: he’s clearly still thinking about the conversation.

“Jesus,” Matt mumbles as he slides back into the barstool across from Mello, holding the sides of the table to balance himself. “Sorry about that, man.”

Mello shakes his head. “No worries.”

Matt sighs to himself, shaking his head. He’s about to start ranting, but Mello cuts him off first, pointing to the booth. 

“Do you want to move over there?” he asks.

Matt frowns, following Mello’s finger. “Over there?”

“Yeah,” Mello says, dropping his hand. “It’s a bit cold here, isn’t it?”

It’s August. The air conditioning is turned low. If anything, it’s hot in here.

“I guess?” Matt says, shifting himself back off the stool. “Yeah, sure. Lead the way.”

Mello leads the way, letting Matt collect the pitcher. 

They settle down at the booth at the far back: small, ripped red pleather seats, and surrounded by a wooden divider that has at least ten couples’ initials carved into it. They’re in plain view of the bar now, parked beside the middle-aged couple who’ve decided to sit on barstools.

Matt takes the spot where he can watch the TV. Mello takes the spot where he can watch Matt.

“Yeah, it’s warmer here,” Matt comments.

Mello hums, catching the bartender’s eye as she comes back over with their shots. Matt looks up too as she approaches, and immediately starts to shake his head.

“Oh, that’s not ours—”

The bartender stalls.

Mello nods at her. “Don’t worry. It’s ours. Thanks.”

The bartender continues with a twitch of her stencilled brow, setting the shots down on the table, one with a lime over it, and pushes the pitcher to the back wall where it can’t disturb them anymore. 

Matt’s confused, looking over to Mello from under her heaving tits. “What?”

Mello pushes the lime-shot towards him. The bartender straightens and leaves. Her perfume lingers in the air between them.

“Seriously?” Matt asks, smiling incredulously.

“Yeah,” Mello responds. “It’s Saturday. You’re not doing anything tomorrow, are you?”

Matt smiles, one-sided, and grabs the salt shaker from beside the pitcher. He understands now.

“Nope,” he says, licking his hand as he looks up with a glint in his eye. “Not at all.”

* * *

Ten shot glasses stacked on top of each other. Five bitten limes on the table, soaking a napkin that haphazardly holds all of them together. The pitcher’s empty, just a thin layer of flat beer settling at the bottom of the plastic. 

Nobody’s cleaned off their table in a while. The bar gets slammed shortly after their move, and now, it’s stuffed like a can of chickpeas. 

The TV’s turned all the way up, playing NFL on ESPN, trying to overpower the sound of people talking. They’re out of stools; the patrons are standing around to chat, laughter and chatter filling up the room.

Matt and Mello are lucky that they got themselves a booth seat. 

It’s too loud to hear each other talk. So they’re both on Matt’s side of the booth, squashed beside one another, silk-to-leather-arm and snakeskin-to-denim-thigh. 

“You’re sayin’ you don’t?” Matt’s asking, his head down. He’s squished against the wall, and everything about him feels warm against Mello’s limbs. He’s drunk as fuck.

“Not much anymore,” Mello responds, only modestly tipsy by comparison. He has his elbows leaned on the table, and he’s playing with the paper wrapping of a straw. Scrunching it up into tiny, rolled-up balls.

“Really,” Matt scoffs from behind him.

“Really.” Mello tilts his head, looking over his shoulder. Matt’s looking at him through his hair, eyes green and bleary. “People change, you know.”

Matt laughs, leaning his head against the back of the seat. “Not you,” he says, rolling his head over to look at him.

“Even me,” Mello responds.

Matt shakes his head with a dismissive snort, sagging against the seat. “I’un believe you.”

Somebody sidles past. Their hip jostles the table, sending the glasses shivering. Mello ignores it, twisting until he’s facing Matt, hip-to-hip.

“I’m not twenty anymore,” Mello says. “It’s not like sex is on my mind constantly.”

That’s a lie. But Matt doesn’t believe him, anyway, laughing dryly. “Yeah, yeah.”

Mello frowns. “What, do you still sleep around?”

Matt sighs, readjusting, crossing his legs and sliding lower on the seat. Their hips stay stuck together, warm past the layers of fabric, and Matt starts to fiddle with his wallet chain. 

“Nah,” he answers, twitching his lip into a frown.

“Yeah,” Mello responds, cocking his head. “So you get it.”

Matt bites his lip, his wallet chain glinting like a dagger in the darkness in between them, underneath the torrent of people laughing, of football scores. Matt laughs to himself bitterly, a short huff of his chest, an afterthought. 

“It’s just,” Matt says, looking back up at Mello. “Who would’ve thought, y’know?”

“Hm?”

“That you,” Matt lifts a finger from his wallet chain, “Of all people could settle down. Seems, y'know. Unfeasible.”

Mello shifts, shaking his head as he rubs his paper-straw-ball. “I don’t have the time anymore,” he explains.

“Yeah?” Matt echoes, looking back down.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Enough of one that Mello needs to take it into his own hands, littering his paper balls on the table as he shifts backwards, pressing his back against the seat. 

They’re properly side-to-side, now. Like they’re beside each other at a movie theatre, about to watch the NFL game.

This close, this much of their body pressed up together, gives Mello warmth. It gives him Matt’s breaths, smelling like tequila, and the heavy cologne of leather. Intoxicating.

Matt’s voice is quiet beside his ear. “Then why you got time for me, huh?”

Mello glances over, tearing his eyes away from the TV that he isn’t watching. He looks down at Matt’s wallet chain, because his face is too close. “Time for you?”

Matt nods, shifting, his fingers looping around the metal, tugging. _Clink, clink_. 

“Meetin’ me tonight,” he mutters. “Takin’ time from your busy schedule to see me.”

Mello quirks a brow at his words. “I enjoy your company,” he says.

Matt squints one eye as he looks up at Mello, then looks down again. “D’you?” he asks.

Mello leans against him experimentally, pressing their arms together. “Plenty.”

Matt lets him. “Just my company?” he asks, widening his legs so that their knees touch under the table. 

It makes Mello go warm. He looks up from Matt’s fingers, from his wallet chain. “What do you think?”

Matt glances up, just his eyes. His chin is still tucked. “I’unno.”

Mello turns his head just slightly so that their faces drift closer. “Don’t you?”

Matt shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyes again, like he isn’t sure if he wants to get away or not. “I’unno,” he repeats. “Do I?”

Mello shifts away for a second, widening their distance, moving to the edge of the bar seat. Matt’s watching him, that dark look in his eye, slumped against the back seat of the bar. 

His breaths are heavy. His mouth, parted.

Mello knows that look. He hasn’t seen it in years. Warmth billows into his stomach like vapor, curling in his gut, sinking into his groin. 

Mello breaks eye contact, glancing down at Matt’s jacket again. He touches it softly, right at the zipper, pulled halfway over his stomach. His touch is soft, and Matt is warm like heaven behind the hide. 

“Isn’t it too hot for this?” Mello asks, his voice low.

Matt’s voice is just as low. “You want me to take it off?”

Mello looks up at that, sharply. Matt blinks, caught off-guard. 

“No,” Mello says softly, his finger tracing down the teeth of his zipper, following along the brass railroad. He’s heading south, his fingers becoming a hand, his hand becoming a touch. “Keep it on.”

His palm ghosts Matt’s bulge, trailing away. He can feel it like passing a stoked fire. Matt’s warm through the jeans. 

Mello drops his hand as he leans in, tucking his face behind Matt’s ear. He can smell Matt’s shampoo mixed with the cheap pleather of the broken seats behind him as he inhales, brushing his lips against Matt’s earlobe. 

He can feel Matt hold his breath.

“You should know how much I like it on you,” Mello mutters.

Matt’s breath hitches, his hand closed into a fist.

“You should know what it does to me,” Mello whispers, brushing his nose against Matt’s ear canal.

Matt exhales shakily, slowly. Mello glances back to the crowd beside them, seeing a fat, balding man watching them with disgust from the bar counter.

Mello looks away, reaching his hand over to grab Matt’s thigh. Matt lets out a soft grunt, and Mello only hears it because he’s so close. All for him.

“Is this what you want?” Mello asks, his voice thin, low. 

“Yes,” Matt responds, breathlessly.

Mello presses his lips into Matt’s ear canal, and feels Matt shudder. He draws away then, his hand slipping farther in between Matt’s thighs under the table. “Then tell me.”

Matt swallows, turning his head to chase Mello back, their noses less than an inch from one another’s. “Are you busy tonight?” he asks, desperation slewing from his words.

Mello squeezes his thigh. “No.”

Matt glances down at his lips, glances back up. “You have all night free?”

“Sure.”

“No work?”

“Nothing.”

“Just me?”

“All you.”

“Is that a promise?”

Mello looks at him, tilting his head. “Matt,” he says, low. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

Matt’s hand darts out from his lap, grabbing Mello’s sides. He crushes their mouths together without another word.

Mello pushes him into the corner of the booth, his hand gripping onto his inner thighs, his tongue deep inside Matt’s mouth. It’s homecoming. It’s been so fucking long. Matt kisses with fervor, and he’s drunk out of his mind, sloppy and spit-soaked and messy.

On TV, the crowd’s cheers build. The announcer’s talking faster and faster as the game picks up. 

_Callahan’s running, and he’s running, and he’s running..._

Mello bites Matt’s lower lip, pulling it into his mouth, and yanks out a thin groan with it. 

_He’s throwing the ball, running over to the…_

Matt grabs ahold of the back of Mello’s skull, tilting his head for him as he pushes his tongue into Mello’s mouth.

Mello exhales a soft moan, sucking Matt’s tongue.

_… and that’s a touchdown!_

The crowd screams on the TV, and the bar rattles with yells and claps. Mello’s hand slips up, squeezed by Matt’s thigh, and he palms the warm bulge through pants. 

Matt’s hand tightens on the back of Mello’s hair before letting go, pulling him away. “Get the check,” Matt breathes, turning his head.

The corners of his mouth glitter with Mello’s lipgloss.

_We’ve seen this, we’ve seen this before last season…_

Mello shakes his head as he slides away on the seat, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. There are people looking over at them, but Mello doesn’t give a shit.

He’s so hard he’s pulsing, and Matt’s so ready for him. 

Mello grabs his wallet out of his jacket pocket. Behind him, Matt’s resettling, sitting up, trying to grab his wallet from off his chain.

Mello beats him: he pulls a hundred dollar bill, slaps it down on the table, and folds his wallet back up to shove in his pants. 

“I’ve got it,” Mello says hurriedly, tugging Matt’s arm away from his wallet. “Come.”

Matt looks up, sees the bill, and then just follows. Mello knows he doesn’t care at this point. Neither of them do. 

Mello shoots to his shaky legs, dragging Matt along behind him. 

The stares grow. The fat man is scowling, and maybe, he’s thinking of starting a fight. But Mello ignores them all. He pulls Matt down the hallway, past the bathroom door, and down a narrow stairs.

They’re out of breath as they walk down. They don’t touch. They’re saving the best for last. Mello leans against the steel push plate, yanking Matt in by the collar of his jacket.

The stench of piss hits first. Stale vomit second.

Mello keeps pulling him into the shit-hole of the men’s bathroom, past the mirrors scrawled with white graffiti, past the tiles an off-white color of grime and scum. 

There’s nobody here, even though the bar is full upstairs. 

They pass the urinals, they pass the urinal cakes. They step over strewn toilet paper, and wet-then-dried paper towel.

Mello pushes Matt into a stall, and locks the door behind them, their shins slotting between each other under the stall gaps. Mello’s sharp-tipped Chelsea boots, spat and shone to perfection, in between Matt’s ratty, loosely-tied Nike sneakers.

There’s a _zip._ A sigh, a gasp, a groan. Some whispers, and a soft, wet smack of a kiss.

Mello’s snakeskin knees meet the diamond-patterned, piss-puddle floor, as Matt’s denim legs buckle. 

“Oh,” Matt sighs, underneath the muted sounds of footsteps above. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” 

* * *

In Matt’s half-empty, never-fully-unpacked living room, there’s a neon blue aquarium, glowing bright enough to light up all 250 sq ft of his apartment. A blue betta fish circles around a Deep Sea Girl Miku figurine, sitting under the water with her hands held to her face, smiling brightly, her curling navy twin tails twisting in the tide.

It bubbles quietly, swimming away.

Across the room past the glass of the aquarium, curled up on a cheap, ratty, second-hand couch, is a sleeping German Shepherd. Her tongue dangles from her mouth.

And, behind the German Shepherd come muffled noises. They trickle from the wall that borders Matt’s bedroom.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

The walls are shaking, rattling with each double mattress box spring creak. Two cheap shelves flanking the bed like makeshift bedside tables vibrate along with it, quaking the alarm clocks, the Bluetooth speakers, the fizzed-out Coke bottles, the mini-bong.

On the bed, Mello’s on all fours, back arched and ass perched like an uppercase M. His hair’s balled up in Matt’s fist, and he’s getting hammered like a bent nail.

Round two.

“Fuck,” Mello moans, rolling his eyes back into his skull as Matt tugs his hair, stretching his neck out. “Fuck me! Oh!”

Matt fucks him, rough and fast, hard and deep, grunting harshly with every thrust.

_Slap. Slap. Slap._

Mello’s loud enough to wake the neighbors. Matt’s too drunk to care about noise complaints, one hand on Mello’s hip, driving into him with heaves and huffs. They thump away, springing like bunny hops.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Slap. Slap. Slap._

Mello groans, rough and noisy in his throat. “Fuck,” he babbles, gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. “You feel so _big_.”

Matt responds by grabbing Mello’s hair tighter, yanking it hard enough to pull strands out of Mello’s scalp. It makes the sharp tingles of his six-year-old burn start to go numb. Mello likes it, arching his head back, feeling like his neck’s about to break.

“ _Yes_ ,” Mello moans, fisting himself desperately. “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Oh, fuck me hard, fuck me, fuck me—”

“God, shut the fuck up,” Matt grumbles from behind him, pushing Mello’s fistful of hair back into the mattress like a head-punch. He keeps pounding as Mello lands face-first into the mattress, Matt’s musty bedsheets flat against his nostrils, like a limp gag against his open mouth.

Mello’s loving every minute of it, pressed up against the fabric of his pillows, drooling all over Matt’s bedsheets. 

“Grrrhgmmgmmgm,” Mello moans. “Mrrf, _ah_ , mrrf—”

Matt piledrives him into the mattress, fucking him down. It gets good, it gets really good, it builds and builds and builds, and then— 

A faint _click._ A slow _creeeeeeeeak._

Panting, coming from the back of the room. Mello ignores it. Matt does too.

Until they both hear a whine.

Matt stops like somebody has hit the pause button, spinning his torso around almost 180 degrees. The pressure in Mello’s ass suddenly leaves as the bed dips, box springs creaking.

Mello opens his eyes just as he hears Matt’s shock. “No,” Matt cries out, stumbling off. “Lucy—!”

Mello scowls, ass still in the air, as he looks over his shoulder.

The door’s open. Matt’s bare ass is shaking as he’s jogging to the doorway, pale white in the thin cracks of streetlights peeking around his heavy curtain. 

And there’s a fucking dog, its head cocked, looking at Matt like it wants to know what he’s doing.

“Lucy, Lucy,” Matt cooes in between heavy pants, shooing it with his right hand, his left hand cupping himself in a show of modesty in front of his fucking dog. “Lucy, come on, girl, you can’t be here right now.”

The dog doesn’t budge.

“It’s daddy’s private time right now,” Matt says breathlessly, bending over to push it out the door. “Shh. Shh. You can come in later.”

The dog gets shovelled away back into the living room. Mello sighs, sitting back up on his knees, the bed creaking underneath the shift in weight. Matt remembers to lock the door this time, and suddenly Mello notices that the room is hot and stinky.

Outside, the dog whines, scratching at the door.

Mello runs a hand through his hair as Matt comes back, swinging his hands at his side dejectedly. “You didn’t have to stop, you know,” he says, leaning back on his hands.

Matt shakes his head, crawling on the bed. “No, man,” he responds, catching his breath. “She can’t see that shit. It’ll scar her for life.”

Mello sighs, turning back around, perching his ass up in the air. He doesn’t give a shit. He could really, really care less.

“Enough,” he says stoically, settling back in position. “Now get back to fucking my ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so, so much for reading. i wish i could let you go, but the fun is only just getting started. 
> 
> more chapters of **Evidence ... that Transcends Hunger** will be coming out in later in the year. until then, you can find more updates & sneak previews by checking out my [carrd](https://etorphine.carrd.co/#chapter35).
> 
> if you skipped the Epilogue -- the true ending for Crush. -- then please make sure to read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006506/chapters/71158494)! (when you're emotionally stable enough to)
> 
> thank you so much for all your support, and i'll see you again soon ♡


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